When You Wish Upon a Star
by SharkPants
Summary: BEFORE ANYONE YELLS AT ME. There is no - as far as I've seen - category for musical pairings. Therefore, I posted this in a random place. Sue me. Anyway. Pairing is J5xManson, and it's pretty explicit. Enjoy?
1. Chapter 1

"You're lucky, you know that? Fucking lucky!" Manson screamed at the childishly fuming bassist, who flinched, but otherwise hid his fear from the shock-rock singer.

Twiggy stood, hands on his hips, with his poorly painted lips pursed, and his eyes narrowed – a pose of general defiance. It was utterly infuriating to Manson.

"Lucky? _Lucky_? Yeah, right, _Brian_," the bassist sneered, a satisfied huff escaping the confines of his throat at the vocalist's expression of anger for being called by his given name. "If anyone's lucky, it's your _new_ plaything. Who is it, anyway? If you're throwing me out, you may as well tell me who my replacement is."

"As if it's any of your fucking business." Manson spoke snippily, words coming out in jagged snatches, rather than actual sentences. "Get out of here, Twiggy. I don't wanna see your face."

The bassist's ego deflated visibly, his stance shrinking, and his hands falling from his hips. Was this it? Manson was – just as quickly as he'd come in – leaving again? Well. The filthy-haired kinderwhore had subconsciously known this day would come, but, equally subconsciously, had hoped it never would. Manson was unpredictable. Always had been. That was what made him so desirable, to Twiggy.

"Manson…" the bass guitarist started toward the singer, his arms out and ready to wind around his ex-lover.

"Get the hell out. I don't want to see you anymore. Fucking _go._"

There was to be no reasoning with the angry shock-rocker. That much was obvious. Instead of forcing cuddles on his fuming companion and band-mate, Twiggy nodded, turned on one heel, and shuffled out, trailing his ratty black boa behind himself on the floor. Upon reaching the front door of the vocalist's Los Angeles home, he turned, casting a hopeful, wet-eyed glance at Manson, who subsequently raised one arm and pointed, telling him silently to go.

_Finally_, thought Manson to himself, slamming the palms of his ringed hands onto his forehead as soon as Twiggy was out of sight. That outburst had building a while. A long while. Twiggy was the fucking clingiest of all the lovers he'd had – and that was saying something. Turning away from the door, the singer crossed to the coffee table, collected his ever-present bottle of absinthe from where it rested among leftover white powder – the main event of his and the bassist's evening together – and curled onto the sofa, heart still pumping out a wickedly fast beat in his chest. Just as the rhythm of his heart had begun to slow, and his erratic breathing had begun its trek to normality, the irritatingly high pitch of his landline blared in his ear, causing his whole body to jolt.

"Motherfuck."

Gripping the receiver angrily, the vocalist slammed the device to his ear, and forced himself to greet whatever unwary phone partner may be awaiting his wrath. "What the fuck do you want?"

"…" John remained speechless, taken slightly aback by the horridly rude greeting given by the dark-haired giant of a man on the other end of the call. Twiggy had seemed upset, and naturally, the guitarist had assumed it had something to do with the singer. "..Brian?" Calling him Marilyn just didn't seem right – no matter whether it pissed him off to be called his given name or not. "It's John. Is everything alr-"

"No. It's not. I don't know who put you up to it, but you didn't need to call. No one needed your bleach-blonde ass butting in."

Blinking, the guitarist released a shocked, if not bemused scoff. "And I don't know what your deal is, _Brian_, but it isn't with me, so you can calm the fuck down, huh?"

No answer. The singer was shocked. John - so sweet and soft; the mother hen of the band - had just told him off. That, in itself, took a fuck of a lot of guts. Something the singer hadn't expected of his band-mate.

"You there?"

Silence.

"Bri- Manson? Are you there?"

Still nothing.

"Fuck. I'm coming over."


	2. Chapter 2

Even in all his anxiety, the guitarist managed to drive over to Manson's L.A. home without event, and upon arriving, composed himself before climbing out of the vehicle and all but jogging to the door, where he rapped gently at its wood surface. No answer came from inside.

"…Manson?"

Nothing. With one manicured hand, John twisted the doorknob. It gave, and he pushed the door open, tentatively poking his head in the door. As he cautiously moved into the house, the pungent odor of absinthe invaded his nostrils like an uninvited and rather rude visitor, and he sniffled slightly.

"Manson? Are you alright?" inquired the guitarist as his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting of the living room, blinking to focus on the vocalist's limp form on the sofa.

"No," was the only response given, other than curling his long legs behind him, in case the blonde wished to join him. Of course, if John _did_ sit down, Manson planned to kick him as soon as he did. Hadn't he said he didn't need anyone butting in?

"Where's the light switch in this…" Shuffling about the room and groping the walls blindly for a switch, the peroxide blonde's fingers found a familiar plastic surface, and he flicked it, instantly illuminating the room in which they were. "Found it.~"

With something of a hiss, the singer threw his arm over his eyes. "What in the actual fuck, John?" The light was the last thing he wanted - or needed. His head was pounding, not only from the ludicrous amount of alcohol he'd already consumed, but from stress. That was his natural reaction - the worst migraine ever, probably because he preferred to keep everything locked up, and eventually, that took its toll on someone.

"I couldn't see. Now," he crossed to the sofa, and perched on the arm nearest the vocalist's tousled head. He knew Manson well enough to know that if he sat anywhere near those huge-ass feet of his, he'd end up with platform boot-shaped bruises on his side and thigh. "What's the matter, hmn? And don't say 'nothing.'"

Clever. Very, very clever. "I broke it off with Twiggy," he spoke softly, but with a voice that could kill puppies with its poison quality. "Why? Didn't the fucker tell you?"

"Oh…" Despite Manson's obvious out-of-whack mood, the blonde couldn't help taking pride in the 'misfortune.' At least now he had a chance - of getting with the singer; of getting the shit kicked out of him by a certain ill-tempered kinderwhore. "No, he doesn't tell anyone anything. 'Cept you."

Having adjusted, the singer looked up at his band-mate, studying his upside down face curiously. "'Guess you're right. Then why'd you call? Better yet - why'd you come?"

"Even if you guys don't, me, Ginger, and Pogo know how close you guys are - _were_, and when Twiggy came in all distraught and whatever, I assumed it had to do with you."

"Pfft. We're only close in that we have similar tastes in a 'good time.'" Lies. Such lies, and Manson knew full well that John knew he was lying.

John, however, said nothing of the smudging of the truth, and settled for cautiously combing his fingers through the dark, straight hair of the shock-rocker. "Shh," he began, puckering his lips as he produced the noise as though he were shushing a child, and not a grown man who towered over nearly everyone. "Look, I'm here, now, okay? If you need to talk, or, y'know, whatever…"

"Stop talking." Manson commanded, but not rudely. His mismatched eyes had slipped shut at the fingers that were now gently grazing over his scalp, and disentangling his messy hair. It was a good feeling - a very good feeling. And it didn't matter to the shock-rocker that this was John he was succumbing to; the prospect wasn't a bad one. John was pretty, after all. Prettier than Twiggy, but that was beside the point.

"But…" After beginning his protest, the guitarist immediately fell silent, a slight, prideful smirk curving his purple-painted lips. Manson was enjoying this. He could see it in his expression: his eyes were closed, hairless brows no longer furrowed, forehead smooth and free of worried wrinkles, and his lips - oh, his lips - were curved, ever so slightly, in a soft smile. No matter how many times he looked away, forced himself to look at something else, the guitarist's deep brown eyes kept returning to the full set of cherry red-painted lips. If he could just…


	3. Chapter 3

No. That wouldn't be right, would it? Taking advantage of the singer when he was at quite possibly weakest that the petite guitarist had seen him wasn't fair. …Was it? Of course not. Manson was clearly strung out over this little ordeal, and it wouldn't be right. But those lips…

"Quit staring at me like that. You're burning holes in my face." Manson shifted uncomfortably, subconsciously nuzzling against the fingertips of the peroxide blonde and releasing a contented sigh through his nose, despite the current state of tension growing between both men. The singer was no stranger to 'signals,' and the fact that John'd been staring at him for whatever extended amount of time was clue enough that he was at least slightly interested – unless the vocalist had something on his face, which he doubted, or sincerely hoped wasn't the case.

"Sorry," John started, but quit talking after the shock-rocker sat up, twisting to face him and sitting between his slightly spread knees. If the guitarist didn't know any better, he would say this was suggestive on the vocalist's part. Of course, that was ridiculous, wasn't it? Manson, despite his whorish ways, couldn't be-

Cutting the guitarist off mid-thought, Manson leant in and quickly mashed his painted lips, which were still moist with absinthe, against those of his companion, non-existent brows knitted together in concentration. Forward? Definitely, but the singer wasn't exactly known for his shyness. In terms of performing, and his public life, anyway.

John froze, his brown eyes wide open, staring blankly at the pair of closed eyes before his own, still registering the fact that Manson's lips were against his own. Snapping back to reality as he felt the singer's teeth catch his lower lip, his eyes slipped shut, and he cautiously placed a shaky hand on the other man's neck, which, much to his surprise, was feverishly warm. Either the vocalist had been as anxious as he, or he was coming down with something.

Pulling away ever so slightly, the dark-haired older male reached up, and with the pad of one thumb, wiped a smudged bit of lipstick away from the corner of his band-mate's mouth, to which he found the other reacting by turning his cute little blonde head and kissing Manson's thumb, taking it between his lips briefly.

This had certainly begun its turn for an intimate setting quite quickly, but that was better for both. That way, there was less to be hesitant about. "C'mere, you," murmured the shock-rocker, pulling at the front of the other's shirt and tugging him off the arm of the sofa, into his leather-clad lap. John twisted, gasping quietly at the feeling of Manson's evident, rock-hard erection pressing through both sets of material and against his ass. It wasn't unpleasant – not at all, really, but it was new, alien.

"Excited, huh?" The guitarist inquired between the capturing of his lips by the other man, releasing a quiet, surprised groan as the singer began to shift, moving his hips upward and against the blonde's backside.

"I could," he began, then interrupted himself to pull away ever so slightly, using one ringed hand to massage his partner's equally pleasure-stiffened crotch, "ask you the same thing, hmn?"


	4. Chapter 4

Whimpering quietly, the blonde chewed anxiously at his lower lip, relishing the taste of their mingled lipstick. "Dam- _dammit_," he growled, moving himself in such a way that he not only pushed himself down on the other's eagerly gyrating lap, but also pushed his crotch into Manson's skilled fingers, which, much to John's surprise, were trembling ever so slightly.

"Nervous?" he inquired of his band-mate, begrudgingly pushing away the singer's hand so he could unzip and unbutton his trousers, which had recently begun to take a turn for uncomfortably tight – especially over his more sensitive regions.

"Mn, more excited," responded the singer in a husky tone, which dripped with lust, yanking the material as far as he could down the other's legs, "than anything else.~"

Careful not to knee his partner in the face and ruin the mood they'd created, the guitarist stood, wiggling his hips in an undeniably adorable manner to rid himself of the clingy garment. As soon as he'd got the material out of the way, he tossed it aside and turned, taking hold of the vocalist's arm and tugging it, suggesting that he get to his feet. "Up, Brian. Please?"

Much to the blonde's satisfaction, Manson unfolded his long legs, and stood, simultaneously managing to unfasten his own trousers with his shaking fingers. "You know," he began, cutting himself off as he stripped his shirt from his pale white, scarred torso and tossed it aside, "Twiggy's going to be pissed when he finds out-"

"I won't tell him," the blonde spoke quickly, stripping down to his underwear, which he intended to leave for his partner's removal.

"No – tell him. I want him to know I fucked you." Smirking, Manson grabbed John by the hips, and pulled him against himself, fingers roaming beneath the waistband and over his partner's flushed skin. "I always wanted to. I'm surprised you never-"

"Stop talking. Just – hush. You can say whatever it is that's so damned important later. But right now, I want you. No. I _need you._"

Immediately ceasing his incessant rambling, the singer mashed his faded lips against the other man's once more, curling his ringed fingers around the elastic waistband of John's briefs, then yanking them down. As he worked at removing his own underwear, the blonde hopped, kicking the material aside as soon as he was able.

Manson straightened, taking his time as his face passed the other's newly exposed nether regions, then grabbed his partner firmly by the ass, carefully backing up to the couch and dropping, bare-assed onto the furniture. Gesturing for the blonde to take a seat, his heart rate quickened in pure anticipation.

"Nuh-uh," the guitarist shook his head, and instead of straddling the vocalist's lap, as he was so desired to do, John knelt and took hold of his companion's hardened member with a fiddly hand, and leant forward, gingerly running his pink tongue over the tip, and then carefully down the shaft, chocolate-coloured eyes slipping shut as he focused on the task at hand. Despite not being terribly experienced in intercourse with members of the same sex, John had a general idea of what needed to be done. And with the orifice that was meant to be penetrated being so small in comparison to the bit of anatomy meant to be penetrating it, lubrication was definitely needed. As the petite blonde continued to move, running his tongue over and around the singer's erection, the vocalist gnawed at his lower lip, moaning and writhing under the other's touch.

"Enough," whined John, withdrawing his cute pink tongue and standing. He was aching to be touched; Manson's sounds of utter ecstasy had sent sparks straight from his ears to his pleasure-stricken groin. He physically couldn't stand it anymore. As he carefully straddled the other man's lap, he positioned himself over the singer's slick, pulsating arousal. "Mn, ready?" he questioned, fingers curling around his partner's base in order to guide him in.

Being unable to verbally respond, Manson simply nodded his head, tongue poised between his streaky lips in concentration.

Exhaling through his nose, the guitarist's blonde hair that had fallen in front of his face fluttered gently up before falling back into position in front of his face. "Here goes.~" Eyes slipping shut, John slowly lowered himself onto the other's saliva-slick erection, a soft squeak being emitted from his throat as he did so. It was painful – of course it was – but it was also an overwhelming pleasure to have the singer inside himself.

Tilting his head back, the shock-rocker released a growly, high-pitched groan, hands finding purchase on the other's slim hips. John was tight – unbelievably so – and the warmth enveloping his length was almost overwhelming. Shuddering, the singer adjusted his position, then sat still, awaiting his partner's signal to continue.

Thighs quivering, the blonde lifted himself up, almost completely off of the singer's erection, then slowly lowered his body back down, shivering as the friction tickled his nerves. Tears were welling in his big brown eyes, but he was determined to grit his teeth and bear it. It was bound to get better. Otherwise, why would people still be doing it? Hands firmly braced against the shock-rocker's scar-latticed chest, he began lifting himself up, and sliding back down, panting heavily as the singer's body fell into the jointed rhythm, bucking his hips upward.


End file.
